


chase away sorrow

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Breaking Up & Making Up, Derek Hale Can Have Nice Things, Derek Hale Needs a Hug, Developing Relationship, Fae & Fairies, Fae Stiles Stilinski, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 08:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10873470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: A faery rises up out of a crack in the sidewalk, a hollow-boned twist of silver skin and empty eyes, and Derek almost swallows his tongue in shock, coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street. It’s not unusual, exactly, for monsters to walk the streets with humans – Derek should know, since being a werewolf isn’t exactly considered human, and that’s exactly what Derek is – but it is unusual for them to sprout up like a weed with little regard for who sees them do it.It’s also unusual for them to stare right at Derek, one arm stretched out in front of them impatiently, something green caged in the confines of their spindly fingers.Derek watches the creature leave, slightly stunned, and then hesitantly reads the note.See you soon, sourwolf.





	chase away sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been sat in my files for about six months, and I realised I hadn't written Teen Wolf in a while, so I finally sat my ass down and finished it, and now here it is! There should be no triggers, and there's no smut, just lots of kisses and magic and good stuff. Some swearing, too, if that bothers you. Title from Melissa Marr's Darkest Mercy. Anyway, I really hope you like it! Much love!

A faery rises up out of a crack in the sidewalk, a hollow-boned twist of silver skin and empty eyes, and Derek almost swallows his tongue in shock, coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street. It’s not unusual, exactly, for monsters to walk the streets with humans – Derek should know, since being a werewolf isn’t exactly considered human, and that’s exactly what Derek is – but it _is_ unusual for them to sprout up like a weed with little regard for who sees them do it.

It’s also unusual for them to stare right at Derek, one arm stretched out in front of them impatiently, something green caged in the confines of their spindly fingers.

Derek glances down at the faery’s arm, paper coffee cup halfway to his lips, and the creature sighs and pushes a piece of crumpled notepaper into Derek’s hand. Then it turns and promptly walks away, ghosting around the edges of people wandering down the street. It’s a thin creature, with green vines braided into its’ coarse hair and flowers blooming along its bare shoulders. Derek watches the creature leave, slightly stunned, and then hesitantly reads the note.

It’s not notepaper, like he thought. It’s a leaf, a wide flat one, with four words inscribed in the waxy surface, probably scratched there with a stick, or the blunt edge of a bitten nail. Derek reads it through three times before he actually registers the words written there, and then his expression of incredulity morphs into a scowl. He scrunches the leaf up and shoves it roughly into the back pocket of his jeans, next to his car keys.

_See you soon, sourwolf_.

No apology. No asking after his health, or checking that he’s still alive, even. Not even an explanation. Just a vague platitude that Derek is _infuriatingly_ _grateful_ to receive. It’s been three weeks since Stiles deigned to acknowledge Derek’s presence at all, three weeks of radio silence, and no, Derek wasn’t really expecting anything grand, or even something mild, but _God_ , he had hoped.

“King of the fucking fae,” Derek mutters, later on, pacing back and forth in front of his desk. “He’s full of mysterious fucking mind-powers and at one with mother nature, or whatever, but somehow he can’t pull his head far enough out of his ass to see that I’m pissed at him.”

Erica smirks at him around a candy bar, sticky sweet.

“Somebody’s tense,” she says, leering slightly as she licks chocolate off of her fingers. They’re in the middle of the police station, but Erica’s never cared much for propriety. She’s got both legs crossed at the ankles, her feet propped up on Derek’s desk so that her skirt rides up, making eyes at Boyd, who’s attempting to open a filing cabinet but keeps getting distracted.

“You need to get laid, my friend,” Erica declares.

Derek rolls his eyes. “That’s hard to do –”

“Heh, _hard_.”

“—When your significant other isn’t around to do the laying.”

Erica arches an eyebrow, balls up the candy bar wrapper and flings it in the direction of the bin without looking. It hits the rim and then goes in, and for some reason that pisses Derek off even more.

“Just find some guy at a club and take him home,” Erica says, shrugging dismissively. “It’s not like you and King Seelie-whatever-the-fuck-his-title-is are exclusive, right? I mean, _he_ obviously doesn’t think so.”

“Stiles, his name is Stiles.” Derek pauses in his pacing, glancing at her. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Please, Derek.” Erica rolls her eyes. “He’s been gone for three weeks without a single word. He’s _fae_ \- King of the fae, in fact, which just makes it a thousand times worse. You know what they’re like.”

Derek narrows his eyes. “Enlighten me, what are they like?”

Boyd slams a pile of Manila folders down on the desk. “Don’t get all pissed. You _do_ know what fae are like. They’re usually only after one thing.”

“In Stiles’ case,” Erica says, smirking. “He’s after you. Some very specific parts of you.”

Derek feels his face and ears get hot, so he mutters something unflattering under his breath and then stalks off to the evidence room before Erica can needle him some more. He usually doesn’t discuss stuff like this with her or Boyd, despite how close they all are, if only because they have a tendency to bash Stiles without thinking. Derek doesn’t know if it’s because of what Stiles is or because of Derek’s relationship with him, but he knows it leaves a sick feeling in his stomach either way.

Granted, Derek hasn’t exactly explained the situation in the best way possible, but he hasn’t lied, either. He’s told them the truth; Stiles is the Seelie King, and that means he has priorities, and right now, Derek simply isn’t one of them.

That’s fine though. Derek doesn’t mind. He’s used to it, really, has put up with it in previous relationships. He knows that you can’t be a person’s priority all of the time. He knows that’s not how relationships work. And this relationship, with Stiles? It’s new. It’s fresh and small and just beginning, like a bud that’s just starting to grow, and Derek doesn’t want to do anything that might accidentally crush that bud before it’s had a chance to bloom.

He knows that when Stiles actually meets Erica and Boyd, and Isaac and the rest of his family, their opinion of him will change. And he wants that, but it’s all so new that he knows they’re not ready for that yet. And that’s partly why he doesn’t want to complain about Stiles’ absence, even though it’s been three fucking weeks of silence and Derek misses Stiles something awful, probably too much considering how new this all is, and he wants to fucking deck the guy and then kiss the hell out of him, or maybe the other way around, he’s not sure yet.

He will know, for sure, when he sees Stiles again.

The thing is, Derek thinks, on his way home from work, is that time passes differently for faeries. It passes especially slowly when they’re in the depths of the Crown Wood, which is where he expects Stiles is now. Crown Wood is the Seelie Kingdom, after all, the very centre of it all. This is something that Derek’s always known, something he always keeps at the forefront of his mind. He has to remember that Stiles might not even have begun to miss him yet, and yes, that _sucks_ , but it’s not really Stiles’ fault.

But the thing is, it isn’t Derek’s fault, either.

*

Derek is in bed by the time Stiles finally comes back. He slips in through the window, spongy green moss spreading across the glass where his fingers have touched it. The shadows cling to him like a second skin, and he sheds them along with his clothes, until he’s dressed in just his underwear, pale and glowing in the moonlight. Derek purses his lips and watches as Stiles crawls over the bed, resting on his knees somewhere near the top of it, beside Derek’s pillow.

“You’re back, then,” Derek says. His voice is a lot softer than he wants it to be.

“I told you I would be,” Stiles says, smiling. “I’ve missed you.”

He reaches out a hand and slides it down Derek’s face, gliding the tip of one finger over Derek’s lips. Derek catches his hand and holds it a little away from his face, but Stiles appears unperturbed. He simply changes direction, leaning forward to kiss Derek’s jaw.

“Stiles,” Derek says, but he can feel himself melting inside. Stiles draws back to look at him, and his smile is so beautiful, so focused on Derek, that Derek hauls him in by the back of the neck and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

It is a lot easier to forget, in the dark.

The morning is a different story.

Stiles doesn’t sleep. Or rather, he sleeps so little that he may as well not sleep at all, and so his eyes are open and fixed on Derek when Derek finally wakes up the next day, well past midday. It’s a Sunday, so there’s nothing on his schedule, and he’s looking forward to spending the day with Stiles.

He moves forward and kisses Stiles, a lingering kiss that sends both of their pulses racing. When Derek moves back, getting comfortable on his pillow, he notices something in Stiles’ eyes. The other man is propped up on his elbow, looking down at Derek, and there’s definitely something there, something that Derek doesn’t want to see.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks softly.

_Regret_. That’s what it is, Derek realises, as Stiles shifts uncomfortably. It’s regret, in his gaze.

“You looked so tired. I didn’t want to wake you up, but I have to go back to the Crown Wood today,” Stiles murmurs. “Now, in fact.”

Derek looks at him – just _looks_ at him, for a moment, and then he sits up in bed. “What?”

Stiles follows him up, but Derek clambers out of the bed and starts to pace. Stiles stays there, in the nest of blankets, and Derek notices that he’s wearing his clothes again. There definitely hadn’t been clothes between them last night, and now there’s not just clothes, but an entire cavern of space separating them.

“There’s a peace accord that needs brokering between the winter fae and the summer fae,” Stiles explains. “I might be in charge of all of them, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t feuds. Old feuds, ones that go back to a time when the fae were separated by races and seasons. If arguments get out of hand, then I’m facing a full on war on my own land. I need to be there to settle it.”

Derek nods a little jerkily, folds his arms over his chest. “Go on then.”

Stiles slides out of the bed with a sigh. “Derek, please, don’t be a dick about this.”

Derek’s mouth falls open in outrage. “ _I’m_ being a dick? You’re the one who fucked off for three weeks without a single word about when you’d be back!”

Stiles balks. His face grows impossibly paler. “Three … what do you mean, _three_ _weeks_? Derek, I was only gone for three days, and I sent Elspeth with a note!”

“It was three _weeks_ , Stiles, not three days, and all the note said was that you’d see me soon, and I only got it the other day,” Derek says, exasperated. He throws his hands up when all Stiles does is look at him blankly. “Just go, then. _Go_.”

Stiles takes a half-step towards him, still bewildered. “Derek. Derek, look at me.”

Derek shakes his head and turns to his chest of drawers, fiddling with things on display. His hands shake as they ghost over everyday objects, and then he feels Stiles behind him, hands carefully resting on Derek’s hips.

“Derek, I’m sorry. Please, look at me.”

“I’m trying not to be dramatic about this,” Derek says, gritting his teeth. He wants to lean back into Stiles, wants to turn and kiss him until all of these bad feelings go away, but he can’t.

“You’re not being dramatic,” Stiles says softly. Derek remembers all the things he was told about fae when he was younger, sat in school. _Fae are fickle creatures._ _They chase humans and other supernatural beings to form attachments with, and then they abandon said attachments. Fae are very good at manipulating scenarios and emotions, and some of the older fae can enhance them, although they cannot falsify them._

So far, he hasn’t let himself believe any of it.

“I didn’t know I was gone for so long,” Stiles says. Derek can hear the anxiety in his tone, and he sighs and turns around. There is an earnest, yet hesitant look in his eyes that Derek wants to wipe away, but he forces himself to stay still, to wait for Stiles to finish talking. “If I had known, I would have come back immediately. I would have written every day.”

“But you can’t know,” Derek says. “So it’s just going to happen again and again, isn’t it?”

Stiles looks at him, brow furrowed in frustration. “Just because I have to go, doesn’t mean I’m not going to come back. Look, we can think of something, something that will let me know how long I’ve been gone for. Maybe something that would let us talk to each other?”

Technology doesn’t work in large groups of fae. It’s the first thing Derek learned about them, when he met Stiles in the dark corner of the bar and murmured something about phone numbers. Stiles had looked at him, amused and a little surprised, and had called Derek a cab.

Then Derek had seen him the next day, leaning against Derek’s car with a sly, intrigued smile on his face. Stiles had asked him how it was possible that Derek could see Stiles, the King of the Seelie Courts, when nobody else could, and Derek had lied about fae ancestors whilst his heart twisted tightly in his chest.

He knew the truth, but he wouldn’t admit it, not now and probably not ever.

“You can’t use a phone,” Derek says, voice clipped. “Maybe it’s best if we just…”

Stiles grabs his shoulder firmly, scowling. “What about something that lets me keep track of time. What about those watches, the old ones? If I had one and you had one, then I’d know how long I’d been away.”

Derek hesitates. “Like a timepiece?”

“Yeah, the pocket things, with the chains. My mom had one. And I know some people with magic, I could find a way to help us talk to each other. I have magic myself, I could probably make something. I’ll work on it, Derek, I promise.”

Derek lets the silence settle for a moment.

“Derek?”

“I know some people too, that might be able to help,” Derek says. He clenches and unclenches his fists and nods tightly. “We can do something about all of this. You still have to go now, though, don’t you?”

Stiles sighs, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Just for a little while. I won’t be gone as long, this time.”

*

Talia wipes her hands on a dishcloth and surveys Derek critically. Something simmers on the stove behind her, filling the kitchen with a warm, spicy scent. She’s dressed sharply, in a smart pantsuit and heels that make her almost as tall as Derek and yet she still manages to look completely comfortable. It’s Derek’s lunch break, and he only came to check up on Erica, who’s off sick after accidentally handling wolfsbane at a crime scene, but for some reason he’s found himself sat at the kitchen table, trying to work up the nerve to talk to his mother about Stiles.

 “There’s something on your mind, isn’t there?” Talia says. “Something to do with the man you’ve been seeing. Something you need.”

Derek side-eyes her. “You’re a werewolf, not a psychic. I have no idea how you do that.”

“I don’t need to be psychic to know what you’re thinking, Derek,” Talia says, smiling. “I’m your mother. Now, tell me about this man you’ve met. What’s he like? Does he treat you well? Is he a werewolf too?”

Derek winces. “Not quite. Actually, that’s part of the problem.”

Talia fixes him with a stern look. “I was asking out of curiosity, not because I deem it important. It doesn’t matter if he’s not a werewolf like you. That’s not the way I raised you, Derek.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I know that, I’m not a complete idiot.”

“I beg to differ,” Laura says, waltzing in from the garden with an armful of herbs. She stamps her feet to get rid of all the mud on her boots and pulls a face at Derek, who pulls one back. Talia rolls her eyes at them both, despairing.

“Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe that the both of you are actually adults,” Talia says. She thwacks Laura with her dishcloth and then turns back to Derek. “You were going to tell us all about this young man of yours.”

“His name is Stiles,” Derek says. “He’s part of the Seelie Court.”

Talia and Laura both pause, herbs suspended between them. Talia looks carefully at Derek and sets a bundle of thyme down on the worktop.

“Part of the Seelie Court,” Talia repeats.

“I thought you said it doesn’t matter if he’s not a werewolf,” Derek says lightly. Talia sees right through his show of faux casualness and sighs.

“It doesn’t,” she says. “And I’m not saying that it matters if he’s fae or not, because it doesn’t. I know what they teach you when you’re young, and they are partly right. Fae can be cold and cruel and harsh, but I believe that is because they are distant from this world. And they are only distant from this world because we believe them to be cold and cruel and harsh. It’s a vicious circle. But Derek, I want you to be careful. There is always a grain of truth to every tale.”

“Stiles isn’t cruel,” Derek says, sitting up straight. “He’s brilliant. He’s clever and he cares fiercely about people. And he’s trying not to be distant, but his home is in the Crown Wood, so time works differently for him than it does for me. That’s why I need your help. He mentioned something about timepieces.”

Talia arches an eyebrow. “That’s a good idea. Technology doesn’t work for fae, does it? No, I suppose it wouldn’t. They have their own sort of magic, after all. A timepiece could be adapted to show the passing of days as well as hours, if we ask the right person.”

“And who’s the right person?” Derek asks.

Talia smiles. “Deaton.”

*

Derek clutches the timepiece in his hands. It’s a thin circle of silver with a clock set into the face of it. The glass is smooth, but there are words scrawled into the back of the metal. Derek has a matching one wrapped around his neck, hanging off a silver chain, and he can feel the slight pulse of magic where it connects with his skin.

Arms snake around his waist from behind, and Derek muffles a sound of shock. He didn’t hear Stiles come in, but now that he’s here it’s all Derek can feel. His heady scent, the thrum of his pulse, the sound of his quiet breathing; it all fills Derek’s head until he’s blinking dizzily.

“I didn’t hear you.”

Stiles hums. “Are those little wolf ears of yours getting tired? You should rest them.” He starts to push Derek towards the bed, but Derek holds firm for a moment, turning in the circle of Stiles’ arm to look at him. Stiles’ grin slips off his face as he looks at Derek, and then he sighs, deeply. “How long was I gone this time?”

“A week,” Derek murmurs. It’s not as long as the last time, but it’s still a significant amount of time to be away from each other without a word spoken between them.

“A week,” Stiles repeats. He lifts a hand and grazes Derek’s cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “A week is a long time to be away from someone like you.”

“I found something that might help, if you want it,” Derek says. He holds up the timepiece, which ticks away silently. Stiles’ eyes light up at the sight, and he reaches for it eagerly.

“My mother had one almost exactly like this,” Stiles says, his voice soft and wistful. “It was gold, and a little heavier, but it was quite remarkable. And this one shows the date, doesn’t it?”

Derek nods, touching the cool metal of his own timepiece. “There are words inscribed on the back. If you touch them and think of a sentence, it should appear on the back of the timepiece. You can’t write anything too long, and it’s not the same as talking, but for now…”

“It’s enough for now,” Stiles says, grinning widely. He has such a beautiful smile, Derek thinks, so complicated but lovely. He puts his hand back on Derek’s cheek and leans up to kiss him, softly. Derek leans into the kiss, his eyes fluttering closed, and then Stiles whispers something against his mouth, something in a foreign language, the language of fae, perhaps.

“What was that?” Derek asks, leaning away. He doesn’t go far; Stiles won’t let him.

“I said, ‘nobody has ever done something like this for me before.’ Everyone that I’ve been with, man or woman, they ask for things, and they take, but they never _give_ freely, not without expecting something in return.”

“I’m expecting you to come back to me, though, aren’t I?” Derek asks.

“You’re asking, not expecting,” Stiles says, with another soft kiss. “There’s a difference.”

*

The timepieces work. Stiles spends more and more time with Derek, fitting into his life seamlessly, as if he’s always been there. He goes to the Crown Wood when Derek’s at work, and they spend as many evenings as Stiles can spare together, in front of the television, which Stiles loves. He makes his way through Derek’s Netflix listings and he eats his way through everything in Derek’s cupboard, trying new things and falling in love with the human world. Derek introduces him to the wonders of technology and they walk, at night, in the parks and along the darkened streets, talking to each other, learning each other.

Derek doesn’t want to say that it’s love, not yet, but when he gets home from work to find Stiles in his bed, munching on a bourbon biscuit and reading one of Derek’s paperbacks, he can at least admit that it’s close to love, almost love. They’re almost there.

“I found something for us,” Stiles says, one morning. He’s wearing nothing but Derek’s sweatpants, which are too big on him, bunching adorably around his ankles, and he’s breathing in the scent of the coffee clasped in his hands. Derek’s at the table, going through old files and humming every time he comes across a typo or a small mistake. He looks up when Stiles pushes something across the table towards him.

It’s a piece of yellowing parchment, curled over at the edges, dry and cracked with age. It looks as though one touch may send it crumbling into dust. Derek stares at it dubiously and waits for Stiles to explain.

“Wait here,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes as he marches into the bedroom, out of sight. Derek waits, glancing from the closed door to the piece of parchment, and then he makes a small sound of surprise as words appear on the paper, startlingly black.

_What’s cooking, good-looking?_

Derek snorts and calls for Stiles, who bounces back into the room with a grin, holding a pen and an identical piece of parchment and looking particularly proud of himself.

“It’s so we can talk to each other,” Stiles explains, rather unnecessarily. “You may not be the most talkative person, but I still miss your dulcet tones. This way, we can actually talk when we’re apart, and I won’t be as distracted in Court, thinking about what you might be saying if I were with you.” He winks. “Either that, or I’ll be even _more_ distracted.”

Derek snorts and pulls Stiles in for a kiss, careful not to crumple the papers between them. He can feel his heart swell as Stiles sighs contentedly against his mouth.

“So, this was a good idea, then?” Stiles asks, as he draws back. There’s an uncharacteristic nervousness about him that tugs at Derek’s heart, and he pulls him closer to reassure him.

“It’s the best idea you’ve ever had.”

*

The bar is one of those hole-in-the-wall joins, full of flickering lights and the sticky scent of beer. Derek tugs Stiles through the door and spots Erica in a booth across the room, lounging against the leather seats with a smirk curling the corners of her mouth. She’s draped against Boyd, who leans across the table to talk to Isaac, one hand resting gently on Erica’s thigh and the other wrapped loosely around his beer. Isaac looks as though he’s been dancing, sweat sticking his curls to his skin, clothes clinging tightly to him. He’s got a silly grin on his face as he laughs quietly at something Boyd says, and then Erica’s head tilts to the side and she frowns, scanning the room until she spots Derek, and a grin stretches across her face. She makes a beckoning motion, elbowing Boyd, and Derek turns to find Stiles is still standing in the doorway, a wide-eyed look on his face as he takes in the room.

“Is this alright?” Derek asks, tugging Stiles closer. They step sideways out of the path of a burly, bearded man, and Stiles does another sweep of the room with golden, assessing eyes.

“It’s different,” Stiles says eventually. “I’m used to a different kind of noise.”

He eyes the speakers on the far wall and Derek chuckles lowly. Stiles gets caught up in the sound and stares at Derek for a beat before nodding, twining their hands together.

“Into the fray,” he jokes, and Derek kisses his knuckles before leading Stiles to where Erica is waiting impatiently. Stiles swallows, throat clicking audibly, and Derek pushes him gently into the seat before following him in, trapping him between Isaac and Derek. It’s not intentional, but Derek uses the opportunity to try and shield Stiles from the rest of the room, which is noisy and crowded at best.

“Uh, hi,” Stiles says, when an unsure silence settles over the table. He shifts a little closer to Derek when Erica leers at him.

“He’s adorable,” Erica says. “Derek, you never said he was adorable.”

“It must have slipped my mind,” Derek deadpans, and Stiles snorts.

“And he finds you funny, miraculously,” Erica adds. “He’s definitely a keeper.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow. “That didn’t take long. I expected to get the third-degree, you know, or at the very least, a duel to defend the fair maiden’s honour, that kind of thing.”

“Why am I the fair maiden?” Derek scowls. Isaac snickers into his drink.

“It’s those luscious, flowing locks of yours,” Stiles says, tapping Derek’s temple. “And the shapely figure.”

“And the general aura of helplessness,” Boyd adds drily. Derek mentally scraps him from his Christmas card list.

He thought this would be a little more difficult; his friends have been pretty vocal about their uncertainty regarding Stiles, and he knows they don’t entirely approve, so he sort of thought he’d have to fight them on this. Surprisingly, though, they settle into conversation easily. Erica asks probing questions about what Stiles does and what the Crown Wood is like, and Stiles answers as best as he can. Isaac is shy, the way he always is with new people, but he manages a few jokes at Derek’s expense, and Boyd chimes in every now and again with sarcastic comments. Stiles is in his element once Derek gets a drink down him, chatting easily about anything and digging for embarrassing stories about Derek from work, which Erica gladly indulges him in.

Derek settles back against the seat, slips an arm around Stiles and smiles.

*

Golden grass sways in the hot, humid breeze. Sweat sticks to the back of Derek’s neck, bleeding down his spine and fusing his shirt to his skin. There’s very little left of the day, but the heat is just as present as it was this morning, when the sun had been at its peak and the sky had been a bright ultramarine blue. Derek has no idea where he is, but he knows it’s somewhere within the Seelie Kingdom, and he knows he was here this morning, and he knows that he’s still here now.

“Stiles?” Derek calls. At least, he tries to call, but his voice settles somewhere within the range of a whisper and a murmur and refuses to budge. He came to find Stiles, came looking for him because it’s been over two weeks, and Stiles has the timepiece and the paper, and yet there’s still been no word from him. Things have been going well, Derek thought, but there’s been no sign of Stiles at all. No flowers on his pillow, no words on the paper, nothing.

Derek is afraid. He knows next to nothing about faerie politics, nor does he know their history. In retrospect, his school did very little to educate him on the ways of other species’. Mostly, his teacher just alluded to how sex was the only important thing to a fae, and reminded them not to engage with them.

“Stiles?” Derek calls again. This time, his voice is louder, and he realises that his feet have taken him further in. He hears a flurry of whispers to his left, and a high-pitched giggle from up above him, somewhere amongst the branches of a thick tree.

“I’m looking for the King,” Derek mumbles, and then the ground rushes up to meet him.

*

Derek wakes in a bed of wheat and silk and petals, to find two bright, golden eyes peering down at him. He jolts upright and smacks his head against the stranger, who swears thickly and rocks back out of sight. Someone snickers in the corner. Derek touches his nose, which throbs, and waits for the pain to subside.

“Fucking hell, Derek,” Stiles says, popping back up with a hand clamped over his forehead. “Anyone would think you’re made of steel.”

“He _is_ a werewolf,” somebody points out, from the doorway.

“Yes, thank you Scott, I’m aware of that,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. Scott, who’s sitting cross-legged on top of a low table, wearing thin white armour and carrying a sharpened, glittering spear, doesn’t seem to catch the sarcasm. Instead, he shrugs with a bright smile and then ducks out of the tent flap.

Derek looks around; it’s not _really_ a tent. It’s a dome of sorts, made of thick, wide green leaves that have been stitched together. The ground is strewn with bark and leaves, and there are roughly-hewn pieces of furniture littering the dark, enclosed space. The only light comes from the gap in the tent flap and a big jar on the table, which is full of fluttering fireflies.

“Are you alright?”

Derek blinks a little hazily, and then he finds Stiles. Stiles, who is kneeling next to the bed with a sharp, worried look on his face and a red mark on his forehead where Derek head-butted him. Derek lift one hand and lightly pokes at Stiles’ cheek, just to make sure that he’s real, and feels relief crawl through him when Stiles blinks at him in surprise, his cheek dimpling.

“Just making sure it’s you and not a dream,” Derek murmurs. He doesn’t have the will to be embarrassed by his own words, but he expects he will later. “What happened?”

Stiles purses his lips. “Some of my people found you wandering around on the wrong side of the boundary line. They brought you here when you fainted. You’re in the Crown Wood, in the Crimson Court.”

Derek puts a hand to his head and groans. “Why do I feel like I’ve been drugged?”

“Because you were,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. There is a spark of anger under that thin veneer of sarcasm. “The boundary line is pumped full of magic. It’s supposed to be enough to confuse anyone who gets close, to send them back the way they came with next to no memory of ever coming here. It keeps everyone safe, including the outsiders. You have to have express permission to come in, and usually an exchange in magical signatures, but you just fucking charged through it like your ass was on fire.”

Derek tries to glare at him, but he still feels thick and hazy with sleep and dizziness, and he doesn’t quite know how to make himself look angry when he feels three seconds away from passing out again.

“I overdosed on magic?” he forces out.

Stiles shrugs. “Essentially. How do you feel?”

Derek considers this, but there aren’t words to describe the heaviness, the dark spots on the edge of his vision, or even the way he feels like everything he does and says is slowed down by about a mile. It takes him one minute to blink, and then Stiles is surging forward until he’s sitting comfortably in Derek’s lap, both of them collapsing slightly in the soft bed.

“It’s still having an effect,” Stiles murmurs. “We can fix that.”

“What are you doing?” Derek mumbles, as Stiles kisses him. Stiles might answer, or he might not; either way, Derek is too lost to know. He is lost in the heat of their mouths, the swipe of tongues, the shivers that rain down his spine. Stiles kisses him and kisses him until they are both panting, both pushed back onto the bed, hands roaming over skin and muscle, and Derek abruptly realises that everything is much, much clearer.

Which is when he realises that he has _changed_.

He growls as he forces himself to relax, forces the claws and fangs away even as his wolf snarls and demands to flip them over, to push Stiles back into the bed and claim him over and over. He puts his hands on Stiles’ shoulder and growls again, until the change dissipates, leaving him with a very human face. Stiles props himself up on his elbows and stares at him, eyes heavy-lidded and dark.

“You don’t have to hide it,” Stiles says quietly. “You never have to hide anything from me. Especially not here.”

Derek shakes his head frantically. “It’s not that – it’s – it’s _control_ , Stiles. I need control, over the shift, over me.”

“Fae aren’t known for their self-restraint.” Stiles leans down and kisses him again, just warm pressure, and Derek feels the shift digging at his ribs, his wolf howling in the back of his mind. Derek turns his face away and Stiles sighs, almost inaudible, before tucking his face into Derek’s neck and simply breathing. Derek buries a hand in Stiles’ hair and counts his breaths.

“How did you make the feeling go away?” Derek asks, once he’s calmed down.

“Magical signatures,” Stiles says. “I kissed you, and I let my magic mingle with yours. That’s probably why you shifted. Now the Crown Wood recognises you as my guest, rather than an intruder.”

“Do you kiss all of your intruders?” Derek jokes, still strangely breathless, and Stiles laughs into his skin. The warmth and the vibration is enough to send a jolt through Derek’s body, and he tightens his hold on Stiles’ hair. Stiles inhales sharply.

“Only the ones with names that rhyme with Merek Snail,” Stiles says, and Derek snorts.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You charged into a magical forest with no preparation and no backup. _You’re_ the ridiculous one.”

Derek’s heart grows heavy. “I did, and I had a reason.”

Stiles grips his shirt. “Derek, don’t.”

“It’s been two and a half weeks.”

“Please, Derek.”

“I gave you the watch, and you had the paper. I kept waiting for you to write.”

Stiles sits up slowly. Derek doesn’t follow him, stares at the ceiling of leaves instead. Some are browning at the edges, curling in enough to let in little flickers of light. There is a sweet smell in the room, filtering in from outside, where Derek can hear quiet laughter and crackly music, if he strains his ears.

“It’s the Summer Solstice,” Stiles says. “Music and magic and dancing. I know you said that it’s been two weeks, but it’s only been a day here. The Solstice stretches on the longest. I can’t apologise for _one_ _day_.”

“I didn’t come for a fucking apology,” Derek bites out. “I came because I was worried. I didn’t hear from you, and I was worried. I don’t know your world very well, and I don’t know if there are wars, or fights, or curses, or anything! Stiles, you’re the King of this place, and as far as I’m aware, Kings aren’t usually the safest people in the game. I thought maybe something had happened to you.”

Stiles just looks at him. He looks and looks, his calculating, sunlit eyes tracing every inch of Derek’s face, like he wants to memorise it. Derek’s heart clenches uneasily. It’s almost as if Stiles doesn’t know when he’s going to see Derek again, as though he’s trying to drink the picture in before it fades altogether.

“You were worried about me,” Stiles says softly.

Derek can’t find his voice. He nods, scowling slightly.

“You were worried about _me_.”

“Stiles—”

“Dance with me,” Stiles interrupts him. He stands up abruptly, in one long, fluid motion, and holds out a hand. Derek reaches for it hesitantly, lets Stiles twine their fingers together and pull him up.

“We still have to talk about this,” Derek says, because there is something very different in Stiles’ eyes, and Derek doesn’t like it.

“I know,” Stiles whispers, leaning in to kiss Derek’s collarbone chastely. “Dance with me.”

Derek swallows and lets Stiles lead him from the tent.

*

Fae are everywhere. The trees are dancing, and the fae in the trees are dancing too. Faeries slip past him, as do the Silf and Selkie’s, and Pixies and Nymphs, all of them laughing and dancing. Light pours off of their exposed skin, like liquid gold. Some produce flowers from their mouths and ears.

“You were surprised, earlier,” Derek says.

Stiles laughs. “People don’t usually worry about me, Derek. It’s something of a novelty.”

Derek has wondered as much. Stiles mentions nothing about his past, about his people, or about his family. Derek doesn’t even know if Stiles has a family, but from the sounds of it, he doesn’t. He poses the question anyway, hesitantly, and takes Stiles’ hand to draw him closer as a pixie slinks close to him, a sly smile on her pointed face. She shoves a handful of flowers into Derek’s hands, and he takes them clumsily. Stiles smiles at his confusion, but the humour is tempered by pain.

“I had a family,” Stiles says quietly. They are standing still in the middle of a forest, and the forest is so alive, but Derek has never felt so still and serious and quiet. “I had a mother, who died, and a father, whom I could have saved.”

Derek blinks at him. “How can you save someone from dying?”

“With magic,” Stiles says. “Magic in exchange for new life.” A stiff, bitter smile spreads across Stiles’ lovely face. “My magic was a small price to pay to keep my father alive. I would have paid it, gladly.”

Derek lowers his hands slowly. Petals cascade from between his knuckles, a lily-white waterfall.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“He didn’t want me to,” Stiles grimaces. “He was never part of this Kingdom, _my_ Kingdom. My mother was the one in charge of the Seelie Court. She was their Queen, and she almost lost her place in this world when she broke the rules and fell in love with a human. She married my father, considered him worth the risk.”

Derek holds his breath, tries not to think about whether Stiles considers _him_ worth the risk. He thinks he knows what the answer is, and he doesn’t want to hear it. 

“It wasn’t easy, but she managed to split her time semi-equally. I don’t know how, especially after I was born. I was a fucking handful and a half, I was. I seemed to have been born under the impression that it was my solemn duty to eat every crayon I could get my hands on and put my fingers in every single electrical socket on the planet.”

Derek huffs a laugh, enjoys the answering flash of warmth that crosses Stiles’ face.

“After I was born, mom made sure to introduce me to the forest, so that the Seelie Court would accept me as the rightful heir. And then she died, not long after, from a human disease, and I spent a year in the Crown Wood, hiding from the human world, learning the ways of the fae, trying to make myself good enough to be their leader. But a year in the Crown Wood is a long time in the human world.”

Derek winces. “Your dad.”

Stiles smiles grimly. “He was an old man. He had re-married, but he had never stopped looking for me, never stopped loving me. I offered to change things, to make him young again, to give him a chance with me in my Kingdom. He wanted to say yes, but my mom taught him some things before she died, and he refused. He knew I would have had to give up my magic.”

“It sounds like he cared about you a lot,” Derek offers.

“Is it bad that I don’t regret it?” Stiles whispers. He crowds against Derek. “Is it bad that I don’t regret that year? I spent it away from him, and he grew old and died, and I barely knew him. He lost his wife and his son, and I don’t _regret_ it.”

“That depends,” Derek says. Stiles tucks his head under Derek’s chin. “Why don’t you regret it?”

This isn’t what he meant, when he said they had to talk about it, but he’s so grateful for this chance. They’re talking, about Stiles, and about his past, and Derek feels this strange pit of pride and gratitude and affection in his stomach, that this boy is opening up to him. Derek gets to hear this. Derek might be the only person in the world who gets to hear this.

“Because I did what was right,” Stiles says fiercely. “I don’t care what people say about our kind, they deserved a good King.”

“They got what they deserved then,” Derek says softly, and this time when Stiles looks at him, it’s with _passion_ and fierce gratitude, like it’s the first time anyone’s ever said the words to him. Maybe it is. Derek raises one hand and cradles Stiles’ cheek, stroking his palm over the prominent cheekbone, down the smooth skin. He digs his thumb lightly into a freckle near the corner of Stiles’ mouth, wants to kiss it. Stiles hums appreciatively, and all around them, the birds start up a song.

Derek knows that, to others, Stiles is cold. Derek’s friends glance at this boy and they see winter in every line on his body, see frigidity in the way he cautiously lets Derek touch him. They see an upturned nose and harsh words and bitterness, unforgiving.

But summer can be unforgiving too, and that’s what Stiles is.

His mouth is hot under Derek’s, eager, his breath cloyingly sweet with spice and wine and fruit. He drags his hands up Derek’s arms and over his shoulders and the touch sends little sparks of heat down Derek’s spine. He shivers, excitement pooling in his stomach, and gathers Stiles close.

It takes Derek a moment to realise that they’re dancing, drifting listlessly through the crowds of faeries like a dandelion caught on the wind. Flowers swirl past in a haze of colours, Sprites shriek playfully around their ankles and Stiles pours laughter down Derek’s throat and into his veins.

*

Derek wakes up cold and alone in his own bed, with no memory of how he got there, and a painful thumping in his head. Dandelions and daffodils lie crushed and creased on his pillows, and there are daisies on the floor. Derek hobbles to the kitchen and drinks three glasses of water, feels the headache fade as his healing factor kicks in.  He wonders if it’s the effects of magic, or if it’s the wine that Stiles plied him with. Werewolves don’t generally get drunk, but fae wine is subtly strong, and Derek drank quite a lot of it. They had needed it, after the conversation about Stiles’ family, and Derek had needed it, because the sadness in Stiles’ eyes was so prominent that Derek knew it wasn’t just about his father. It had something to do with them.

It’s odd, Derek thinks, that he can feel so happy and so sad at the same time, so worried and yet so hopeful. There had been something about last night that spoke of finality, that made him feel like things were ending, and yet it’s the most truthful conversation they’ve had in a long time.

He goes to work in something of a daze, dodging Erica’s questions as he painstakingly writes out a request for Stiles to meet him, on the paper, as soon as he can. He’s got nothing to say to him, nothing but the niggling feeling that something is wrong, that something’s going to change, and he wants to see him.

It turns out he’s right. Something’s going to change.

Stiles sits on the windowsill, legs crossed at the ankles, and fiddles with the hem of his shirt. Derek finds himself frozen in the doorway, glancing from the bag at Stiles’ feet to the frost glazing the windows.

“Stiles?” Derek says hoarsely, and Stiles flinches.

“Look, I didn’t want to do this,” Stiles says. “I thought that, maybe, we could make this work, but it’s just not going to, Derek.”

“What are you talking about?” Derek crosses the room and grips Stiles’ elbow tightly, ignoring the way he wriggles, trying to duck out of his grip. “You want to end this?”

“Aren’t you tired?” Stiles snaps. “Aren’t you tired of going so long between visits, of not being able to talk to me when you want to? This wouldn’t happen if you were dating a human. You’d be able to go on dates, do normal things, be a couple together. You wouldn’t have to worry so much.”

“Worrying is part of it all, Stiles,” Derek says, but Stiles cuts over him.

“I’m not breaking up with you,” he says. “I just need some space, a little bit of time, that’s all. I need to think. I haven’t done this before, and it’s moving too fast.”

All valid excuses, and maybe they’re true, but there’s something stiff about Stiles’ tone. They aren’t the real problem, they aren’t whatever Stiles is keeping a secret. Derek takes another step forward just as Stiles ducks to the side and clambers out of the window. Derek’s apartment is on the top floor, but it makes no difference as Stiles melts into frost and disappears.

Derek stands, frozen, his heart doing its’ best to crawl out of his chest.

*

When Stiles gets back to the Crown Wood, Scott surveys him with something akin to disappointment. He jerks his head at Stiles’ room, and they duck under the canopy and out of the prying eyes of his subjects. He’s going to have to dance and joke and look like he’s having fun when he goes back out there, which is incentive enough to burrow under his covers and never come back. He feels as though ice has wrapped itself around his heart, frost spreading across his chest.

“What did you do?”

“I told him I needed space,” Stiles says hoarsely. He can’t get the image of Derek out of his head, standing there, frozen, looking like his heart was breaking.

“Did you?” Scott looks at him thoughtfully. “Is that what you’re doing? Are you taking space, or are you giving him space? Because I’ve seen you two together, and he’s not going to change his mind, Stiles. You’re both grossly in love.”

Stiles snorts. “You can talk. How’s Allison?”

Scott just leans over and punches him in the shoulder. Stiles sighs and sits on the edge of his bed, running his hands through the soft feathers and blankets beneath him.

“He should change his mind,” Stiles says, eventually, quietly. He scrubs a hand over his face and looks up at Scott. “Once I’m not around as much, he’ll change his mind. You know what fae do to the ones we love. We change them. I can’t change him, Scott. So, he has to change his mind.”

“Idiot,” Scott says fondly. “You haven’t been around much, that’s the problem, and yet he’s still waited for you. He still loves you. The only reason he might change his mind is if you push him away on purpose, like you’re doing now.” Scott comes closer, kneeling on the floor beside Stiles and putting one hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Stiles feels a rush of warmth for the man in front of him, his friend, his brother, and smiles weakly. “Stop being stupid, and go back to him, before he stops waiting for you. Talk to him. Isn’t that what you always tell me and Allison to do, when we’re having trouble? To talk to each other?”

“Yeah, and I’m beginning to see why you get so annoyed every time,” Stiles says, only half-joking.

“Deal with it,” Scott says cheerfully. He claps him on the shoulder and then stands to leave. “Promise me you’ll think about it, at least.”

“I promise.”

*

The flat is ice-cold when Derek gets home from work. He sighs, and his breath mists on the air, forming a silver cloud. Shivers erupt across his skin, and he glances at the locked door, at the closed windows, and braces himself for a storm. Stiles is here, somewhere, either sulking or sad, and he’s brought frost with him. Derek waits in the doorway for a moment before he places his bag down on the little table, where the house phone sits, and ventures into his own home hesitantly.

Stiles is splayed out on Derek’s bed, dressed in loose white clothing, drawing patterns in the air with frozen fingers. His hair is a dark mess against Derek’s pillows, and his limbs are long and sprawling. Derek wants to gather him up and kiss his forehead, whisper sweet nothings in his ear. Instead, he walks to his dresser and leans against it, waiting.

“It feels wrong,” Stiles says suddenly, after minutes of silence pass by. Derek can tell that Stiles wanted him to speak first, but Derek is good at silence, and Stiles will always want to fill a space up with words. Derek waits, and Stiles makes an impatient noise and continues.

“Being away from you,” Stiles says, a bite to his voice that wasn’t there before. “It felt wrong. I was holding Court in the realm of spring, and it started to snow. _Snow_ , Derek, in spring.

“Stranger things have happened,” Derek murmurs. He looks away when Stiles lifts his head, stares out of the window as Stiles stares through him, and he can feel his mask of indifference crumbling under that heavy gaze. He can feel the moment that Stiles recognises the sadness in him, the frustration and the pain and the longing, because there’s this sharp inhale, and then Stiles slides off of the bed and pads across the room towards him, barefoot.

“You’ve been so sad,” Stiles says, under his breath, almost awed. Derek turns away from the window in order to glare at him. “I didn’t know.”

“We are not doing this,” Derek says firmly. “You broke up with me, remember? And it’s been a week since I last saw you. Yes, I’ve been sad, and you haven’t. I get it, it’s fine for you.”

“Why?”

“We’ve been over this,” Derek says, a little exasperated. “It’s why we broke up, because it will always be fine for you, being away from me. You don’t even _notice_. Stiles, you were the one who chose this, and now you’re back and I don’t get why.”

Stiles cuts him off with a finger to his lips. Frost rolls over Derek’s mouth, and his tongue tastes like mint and a bitter morning.

“I meant, why have you been so sad?” Stiles murmurs.

Derek rolls his eyes. “You broke up with me, Stiles. It’s not exactly a happy occasion for me.”

“I was giving you space. I made it snow,” Stiles says, pursing his lips. “I thought it was an attack at first, perhaps an outsider, but it was _me_. When I left, I took winter with me, and it brought me straight here.”

“Is that supposed to be flattering?” Derek snorts. “Your least favourite season led you to me.”

Stiles sighs, pokes Derek in the chest. “It’s not really winter, you idiot, and you know it. It’s sadness. Sorrow, regret, anger, manifested into _this_.” He gestures around him, at the blizzard of emotion that fills the room, sending gooseflesh up Derek’s arm. “I brought this with me.”

“And when you leave,” Derek adds quietly, “you will take it with you again.”

Stiles falls silent, watching him.

“Nothing’s changed, Stiles. You were the one who pointed out that this wouldn’t work. You still won’t be around, you will still end up leaving, again and again. You’re not going to be here in the morning when I wake up. It’s going to be days between each visit again, days before you even think of me. And it’s not fair, because I’ll be thinking of you constantly, and you won’t even fucking notice.”

At that, Stiles seizes Derek by his shirt and yanks him down so that they are both at eye-level, Derek’s neck bent at an odd, painful angle.

“You can be pissed and upset, but don’t you dare think for one minute that I mean more to you than you mean to me,” Stiles hisses viciously, and Derek is abruptly taken aback by the fierce tone. “Fae only ever love one person in their whole lives. They have sex, often, and they flirt and dance, and they take joy in people, but they don’t _love_ , not truly. And if, by some fucking miracle, they finally _do_ find someone to love like that, they _keep_ them.”

Derek swallows thickly. “What do you mean, keep them?”

Stiles lets go of his shirt. He seems to regret his harsh tone, or maybe just the words he let slip out, because he bites down hard on his lip and looks around angrily. When he finally speaks, his tone is wooden. “It’s a long-standing tradition. You find someone you love, and when you do, you make them fae, like you, if they aren’t already fae. It happens without either of you knowing, like seasons changing. That’s why it hurts so much to let go. And trust me, every fae tries to let their loved one go, because every fae hates what they are, deep down. We know that we’re frivolous and cold and aloof, that we’re flighty and possessive. Some of us are cruel, some of us are cold-hearted, and we all _know_ it. We don’t want to turn the people we love into us.”

Stiles closes his eyes. “That’s why I had to let you go. I’ve been thinking about it, this past week, and I’ve done some studying, and the truth is that I can’t change you into a fae, even if I tried. Your werewolf biology won’t allow it, but the alternative… a relationship where I have to watch you grow old and die, that would hurt too much. I can’t do that, Derek. We grow so slowly, and you age so quickly. I can’t do it.”

Stiles takes a step back, shoves his hands into his pockets. The misery on his face is a very human kind of misery, softer than his usual sharp, angular expressions. Derek feels it resonate within him, feels sorrow drum against his ribs like a hummingbird begging to be freed.

He can’t hold it all in any longer.

“Werewolves find their mates when they’re young,” Derek says, into the silence. “There’s no one true mate, no soulmate that you’re born to be with. It’s not some magical bullshit that lets you find the other half of your soul. Most werewolves don’t even call them mates, not really. It doesn’t work like that. It’s very much an animalistic practice, a process of nature.”

Stiles is staring at him, his eyes wide and vulnerable.

“We pick a mate,” Derek continues softly, “someone that we’re compatible with, and sometimes they become wolves too, and sometimes they don’t, and sometimes they’re already wolves. It’s different, with every set of mates, but there’s one thing agreed on, by all werewolves. You find your mate when you’re young, and you stay with them, forever. Werewolves always find the one they love young.”

Stiles blinks up at him, and Derek leans forward to swipe at the ice on his eyelashes with his thumb. The temperature drops several degrees.

“You have a mate out there then, somewhere,” Stiles says bitterly, head jerking back a little. He doesn’t actually seem to want Derek to stop touching him though. “You didn’t tell me, but I suppose I can’t get pissed off. I didn’t tell you about us, either. Actually, fuck that, I _am_ pissed off. What the fuck, Derek? Why the hell didn’t you tell me we were doomed from the start, that you already had somebody?”

Derek sighs, shaking his head. “You’re not _listening_. I didn’t find my mate when I was young. There was nobody that I was compatible with, nobody that I wanted to spend forever with. I don’t have one, and I thought, for a while, that I would never have one. I thought there was something wrong with me. But I think, really, that there was nothing wrong at all. I think I was just waiting for you.”

Stiles inhales sharply. A bright flush creeps up his cheeks, and the snow in his hair melts slowly. “Me?”

Derek smiles hesitantly. “You.”

Stiles falls forward into Derek’s arms, and Derek gathers him up like he’s been wanting to from the moment he opened the door. Stiles is cold, at first, but he grows warm as Derek buries his nose in Stiles’ hair and inhales deeply. The wolf inside of him settles for the first time in weeks, humming contently.

“This doesn’t fix everything,” Derek murmurs. “I still don’t know how this is going to work. _If_ it’s going to work.”

“Me neither,” Stiles says, sighing. “But I’m damn well not letting you go again. And I realise that sounds sort of creepy, but I mean it in the least perverted sense possibly.”

For the first time in weeks, Derek finds himself laughing.

*

Stiles learns to delegate. He’s been a good King, an excellent King, for years now, and his fae love him. His advisors are only people that he trusts implicitly, and his Court is made up of the most sensible, brilliant fae in the world. He delegates, and then he lies in Derek’s bed and frowns at the ceiling.

“Just go,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. He’s leaning against the doorframe with a cup of tea in his hands, blowing on the hot liquid whilst Stiles taps his fingers against the bedspread. “You’ve been here all weekend, and that’s more than I ever expected, so just go.”

Stiles rolls out of bed, taking half of the sheets with him, and springs to his feet mere inches from Derek.

“One would think that you’re trying to get rid of me,” Stiles declares, a slightly wicked look in his eye. “Are there other men in your life, Derek?”

“Oh, naturally,” Derek says solemnly. “I’ve got a string of admirers a mile long, and you’re intruding on their time.”

“As long as they bring chocolates with them,” Stiles says. “One thing I love about your ridiculous world is the food. Chocolate especially.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow. “I hadn’t noticed. My biscuit tin, on the other hand, _definitely_ noticed.”

“Chocolate bourbons,” Stiles moans, resting his head on Derek’s collarbone. “My God, I’d _kill_ for chocolate bourbons.”

Derek ducks his head until he can kiss Stiles soundly, grinning against his mouth. Stiles draws back a little, eyes dark.

“Can I stay a little longer?”

Derek can’t help the way he smiles, blindingly and bright. “Stay for as long as you like. Forever, in fact.”

Stiles does.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! How was that? I hope it wasn't awful, please leave a comment and kudos and let me know what you thought, I'd love to hear from you! come find me @thealmostrhetoricalquestion if you want to chat. Thank you so so much for reading!


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